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The sisters came to see me, Jack,
all nine of them, last night; I could hear
the patter of their feet around
my bed: a flock of barefoot maids,
the brood of a major god, good Lord!
I breathed the smell of their lovely bodies
and knew they’d come from heaven, and brought
along their bucket and dipper gourd.
I wasn’t looking for a bath,
but they bathed me anyway, a stern
admonishing submersion it was,
as I recall, though I slept right through
the whole delight — the night was deep
and I was deeply in it. When
I woke, I wasn’t whiskey-addled,
as scoffers might suspect, but pearled
with dew; my lips had curled into
a shepherd’s crook, a look half-glad,
half-stunned at being washed so well.
I was released and governed both
at once, Old Swain, but fancy this:
inside my mouth I swear I held
an older tongue. Will it pronounce
the necessary word? Ha ha,
we’ll see in several hundred years.
It’s clear to me I can’t complain
about these daughters or their water,
and while the virtue of their visit
is yet unknown, I wanted you
to know, by golly, they were here.
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